


The Branghandle Romance

by stitchy



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1950s, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Middle Aged Albus Dumbledore, Muggle/Wizard Relations, Period Typical Attitudes, Romance, knitting and musical appreciation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-15 02:01:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16924428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchy/pseuds/stitchy
Summary: “You ought to hear the theories about you, Mr. Dumbledore. Sister Gladys thought maybe you were foreign, since you didn’t speak much, but I say you’re one of those classified chaps from the war."-In which Albus Dumbledore finds himself between Dark Lords to defeat, and in the company of a rather charming muggle.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was imagining what it must be like to be Dumbledore post-war. He's unwilling to join the Ministry in fear of his own power, and has a solid ten years before becoming Headmaster or getting an inkling of what Voldemort is up to. What's a bored, sad wizard to do while sitting on the Elder Wand yet determined not to use it for ill?
> 
> So! It's 1953, the country is on the mend with a new queen, and hey why not! Let's give Dumbledore a nice muggle boyfriend who can bring him around from what must be a nebulous era of his life.

     There was something different about Branghandle that morning. Albus Dumbledore had first noticed it while circling high above the village on his broom, where the dots of red, white, and blue scattered the greenery like a spill of Bertie Bott’s Beans. He landed in his customary spot- a grove of trees that shrouded the northern, least frequented road in and out of the village, transfigured his broom into a bicycle, and rode on to take a closer look. Ordinarily, one could expect to follow this road down to the village without passing so much as a rambler, but today no fewer than four motorbikes and two shiny automobiles zipped past him on his way. Unused to sharing the road with vehicles of any kind, Albus had to cast a quick Supersensory charm so as not to be surprised into a ditch before he could reach his destination.

     Upon entering the town, he discovered the origin of the colors he had spotted from above. Muggles were standing on tiptoes and ladders, stringing rows of little flags from tree to tree. Most were a simple cloth triangle, bright and cheery in the summer sun, but several larger flags he recognized as the overlapped crosses of the Union flag. He could only wonder at what event they might anticipate as they’d already passed Easter, one of the few muggle bank holidays that carried over to the Hogwarts calendar, and Victoria Day, which did not. Besides, it was a Tuesday! He might have off because he didn’t happen to be holding any exams that day, but he was given to understand the majority of people worked Tuesdays.

     The churchyard in the town center was filled with tables of mismatched height, both rectangular and oblong, formed into a horseshoe shape. More flags were pinned along the tablecloths, which were laden with pastry and more brightly colored bottles than Horace Slughorn’s potions bench. The jaunty music of a guitar and fiddle filled the air as villagers wove in and out of the set up, filling plates and glasses and conversing with their neighbors about their children, the fine weather, or what they planned to do with the extra 4 ounces of margarine ration. The fluffy, fashionable skirts of the well-dressed ladies were in constant peril of colliding with frosted cakes and the grass underfoot was nearly trampled into mud, but no one seemed to mind. Good spirits reigned. Not knowing any of the people in the crowd, and not having brought any food to offer the communal table, Albus contented himself only on the smell of fresh fruit pies before moving on.

     A few doors down from the busy scene at St. David’s was the charity shop, where Albus hopped off his bicycle and leaned it against yet another flag strewn fence. He gathered up the contents of the basket and made his way in, still humming along to the unknown tune from down the street.

     A cheery voice called out from behind the counter before he stepped fully indoors. “I’m sorry- I’m just about to close up for the coronation.” A small man with a white painter’s brush moustache folded his hands apologetically. “I only came in today to bring in overnight donations from the doorstep.”

     Albus stopped in his tracks, nearly toppling a bundle of socks from the top of his armful. “The what?”

     “You know, the queen!” The man straightened his bowtie as though he were under Her Majesty’s inspection.

     “Not personally.” Ever since the fiasco of the abdication during which the Department of Memory Modification had to be created, The Ministry had taken a strong line against wizard fraternization with the sovereign.

     “You’re a funny chap,” the man laughed. He beckoned Albus to the counter, regardless.

     He set down the pile of hand knitted goods and scratched his beard thoughtfully. “I wasn’t aware that was today. I was just in town to buy more wool.”

     “Oh, you won’t be able to. Everyone’s off today.”

     “Then I shouldn’t keep you from the festivities for long,” Albus offered his hand. “My apologies Mr...?”

     “Jim Pipperidge,” said the man, drawing himself up to his full height, which was still nearly a foot shorter than Albus. “Everyone calls me Pip.” He shook hands with a vigor that made the curl at the top of his gray head bounce. He was one of three volunteers Albus saw regularly at the charity shop, along with a tall young nun, and a sullen teenaged boy who couldn’t find anything better to do with his Saturdays.

     “-Mr. Pip.”

     “I’ve seen you around,” Pip continued. “Always come in with a donation but never buy anything. Usually come and go without a word, and you don’t seem to live in town, so’s I never learned your name, sir.”  
  
     “Albus Dumbledore,” he said sheepishly. “I meant no offense.”

     “None taken!” Pip smiled. “Wait til I tell them I learned the name of the beardy man with all the knitting. Sister Gladys will probably make a Thank You card. All those lovely warm jumpers for charity.”

     “It’s no trouble really.” The enthusiasm of Albus’ friends and colleagues for his hand knitted gifts had long since been outpaced by his creative speed. It seemed only right to find a needy community nearby to funnel his productivity into. If he was getting a reputation, however, it might be for the best to start spreading around to other towns.

     “You ought to hear the theories about you, Mr. Dumbledore. Sister Gladys thought maybe you were foreign, since you didn’t speak much,” Pip shook his head in dismissal. “I say you’re one of those classified chaps from the war. But Dennis says that can't be right, as you once asked what the calculator was, and what sort of boffin doesn’t know an adding machine when he sees one? I was only Home Guard, of course, but you hear things! I say it’s part of your cover...”

     Albus lost the struggle to hold back a chuckle. “You have a wonderful imagination.”

     “But am I right?” Pip raised an eyebrow and grinned irresistibly.

     “I couldn’t tell you, one way or the other.”

     “Tricky, tricky,” Pip laughed. He began to fold away the donated clothing to a box behind the counter. He glanced over his shoulder at Albus as he walked the box over to a pile of other items that needed shelving. “It’s more fun guessing. I can tell you’re a good sort, anyway.”

     “I endeavor to be,” Albus said, mostly to himself. “I can tell you that now, I’m a teacher for special children. Ones who need help to spell.” A well rehearsed half-truth, specially devised to put to rest the inquiries of muggle acquaintances.

     “Oh, me Dad had a touch of that,” Pip said, grabbing his hat and coming around the counter. He checked his wristwatch, but made no motion to shoo Albus so he could close shop. “If you didn’t know about the coronation, I don’t suppose you already have plans to watch it.”

     Albus furrowed his brow. “Surely it’s all the way in London.”

     Pip laughed as though this was the height of comedy. “On the telly!”

     “No?”

     Waving a gracious arm towards the door, Pip bowed slightly. “You’re welcome to join me. It’ll be starting soon, and there’ll be sandwiches.”

     “Well...” Well, the Ministry wasn’t wild about wizards paying social calls to the homes of un-initiated muggles, but his plan to do errands in the shops was already dashed... And surely the instating of a new monarch was news with world-wide implications worthy of knowing...

     Pip looked up at him hopefully. His friendly brown eyes crinkled. “Well?”

     It didn’t hurt, Albus thought, that his would-be host was terribly charming. “Well, all right.”

     “Good man,” Pip slapped his back and headed through the door. “My daughter Claire and her husband bought the telly for me after-- _well_ , after the missus died. The pictures gone out, but we can still listen!”

     Having no expectation of what a ‘telly’ ought to be, this did not phase Albus. “I’m sorry to hear about your wife,” he offered instead.

     “Thank you.” Pip smiled fondly, and though Albus saw the expected trace of grief, it did not sour the man’s mood. “She would have loved to see a woman on the throne again, I’ll bet. I hope Ol’ Victoria’s thrown an all girl party up there today. Oh, hullo Francis!” he waved to a neighbor across the street.

     Albus tipped his hat, too. “This is the most people I’ve ever seen about in Branghandle.”

     “Where’re you from?” Pip asked. He spun a ring of more than a dozen keys until he found the correct one for the charity shop’s door.

     “Hogsmeade.” As with many wizarding town names, the name had been enchanted to slip quickly from muggle minds.

     “Never heard of it- oh, good morning, sir!” Pip waved to another passer-by. He waited for Albus to collect his bicycle, then lead them down the road. “I haven’t seen people this excited since V-day. You remember?”

“I do.” _Unfortunately_.

     Occasionally interrupted by neighborly How Do You Dos, they made their way from of the center of the village to Pip’s home while he spouted local history. To the South, there were smokestacks poking up over the village, though they were dormant for the holiday. Pip explained, “Branghandle was just a glorified sheep pasture before the war, when Bascomb’s popped up. Not much of my generation left except for the nuns. All young families now, who’s Pa or Ma came to work at the factory.” He pointed out which houses had added extra stories, and which trees had been on the edge of town ten and fifteen years ago, to illustrate the spread.

     Soon enough they stopped at a stone built cottage, creeping with ivy, where Pip took out his immense key ring to open the butter yellow door.

     “Home sweet home!”

     Albus kicked the stand on his bicycle before following Pip in, ducking through the low hung door.

     In his capacity as a Hogwarts ambassador to muggleborn students, Albus had been in more muggle homes than the average wizard, but it was always an adjustment. Things were uncommonly _still_ in a non-wizarding home, and the Pipperidge home was no exception. The inhabitants of portraits hanging on the wall did not perk up to see who had arrived, nor did the brush in the fireplace make any gesture to tidy itself. The headlines on the folded newspaper on the side table didn’t change, and its photos remained stationery. With the exception of an old clock ticking the seconds, nothing moved of its own accord. No tiny magical chaoses. It was peaceful.

     “How lovely,” Albus said, truthfully.

     Pip stooped to fiddle with the knobs on what Albus had taken to be a small, strangely honored chest of drawers. All the seating in the room was angled to appreciate a view of it, rather than facing each other. There was a picture of the Pipperidge family in younger years atop the wooden box and a stack of books, opposite a doily topped couch. Pip tapped on a small glass window at the front of the box. “It’ll take a few minutes to warm up,” he said mysteriously.

     Without portraits to greet, Albus inspected the other decor hung on the walls. On either side of the television there were polished wood plaques with dozens of tiny brass hooks in neat little rows. Not every hook was filled, but those that were hung an array of glittering keys in every metal, shape, and size. There were even a few made out of wood or plastic.

     “My collection,” Pip admired. “Started when I was a kid. Just had a knack for finding bottle caps and coins and the like. Got myself a bit of a reputation! Then I wound up becoming a locksmith, and people kept giving me keys they found as gifts, whether I wanted to start a collection or not.”

     Albus hummed. “I have the same problem with chess sets.”

     “I’ll keep my rooks to myself, then,” grinned Pip. “Nowadays, if someone in Branghandle misplaces or breaks a key, they know where to come. Even a key that’s just a bit off can be a lifesaver in a pinch.”

 _Alohomora personified,_ Albus thought _._ If only it weren’t terribly illegal to send him a key-seeking niffler. “Are those your favorites?” he asked, pointing to the ring still jangling in Pip’s hand.

     “Some are, some are just ones I’ve been given this week and haven’t sorted yet.” He picked out a tarnished, stubby little key from the bunch. “This one’s for the house I was born in. They tore the place down, but I’ve still got it.”

     Just then, a pompous march began to emit from the television, though the glass remained gray as ever. Pip fussed with the thing some more, to adjust the volume.

     Before they sat, Albus excused himself. As soon as the loo door was shut behind him, he opened the tiny window. “Fawkes?” He peered between the plaid curtains to the garden below.

     With a crack, the bird appeared on the other side, flapped twice, then came to rest on the sill. He cocked his head, at the ready.

     “Would you please let Minerva know, I’ve accepted a lunch invitation and won’t make it to post-exam drinks. Give my apologies to the other professors,” Albus whispered.

     Fawkes gave his finger an acknowledging nibble and vanished as discreetly as he had arrived.

     Out in the parlor once more, Albus joined Pip on the squashy couch. His host had already broke out the whiskey for a toast. Pip handed him a glass and beamed.

     “To Elizabeth the Second!”

     “Long may she reign!”

     They clinked and drank just as a melody older than the Statute of Secrecy began to sound from the television. Probably from around the time of the first Elizabeth, in fact, which made Albus wonder if perhaps muggle and wizarding kind broke bread together for that occasion as well. It was a heartwarming thought- partaking in human tradition older than the current social divides. There was a wealth of ancient culture they held in common even after all this time apart. The music filled him with an optimism that paired well with friendly company and a strong drink. By the time they got to Handel's “Zadok The Priest” (a suspected historical wizard if ever there was one) it was all Albus could do not to sing along.

     “Ah, I do love the music,” he sighed.

     “Do you play any instruments?”

     “Regrettably, no.” There were only so many hours in the day, and time-turners were an indulgence he absolutely refused himself. “Do you?”  
  
     “I used to play piano, but now I’m not sure where’d I’d even keep one.” Pip looked around at the cozy room, already crammed with the necessary furniture.  
  
     “That’s a shame, I would love to hear you play. Perhaps we could devise a way to suspend it at the ceiling until needed?” Albus glanced up at the wood beams that trussed the cottage roof. He couldn’t help but tease, he was having such a lovely time.

     Pip played along with a twinkle in his eye that made Albus worry he was blushing. “That’d be clever, wouldn’t it?” He stood up suddenly. “Oh crumb, I was having such a nice time chatting with such an interesting fellow, I forgot I promised food.”

     Now Albus was definitely blushing. “Please don’t put yourself to any extra trouble!”

     While Pip busied himself in the kitchen with a kettle and some lunch, Albus’ curiosity got the better of him. He crept up to the television to investigate. Surely it was just a matter of binding the cameras in London to the surface of the glass? All the mechanical pieces were there, though they might be broken. If muggles could do it... He glanced over his shoulder to be sure he was unobserved before taking out his wand for a quick spell. It was safely tucked away again by the time he stood in the middle of the parlor, admiring his handiwork. Through the little window, a tiny woman sat at the end of a carpeted aisle in a magnificent building of the same era as Hogwarts itself, surrounded by tiny caped officials in mushroom shaped hats.

     “I hope you like cucumber, it’s from my own garden,” said Pip, carrying a tray laden with tea and sandwiches. He stopped before he reached the table, eyes fixed on the little window. “Err, how’d you manage that?”

     Albus shrugged. “I just tweaked it a bit.”

     “But it’s in color!”

     Oh, he could absolutely _hex_ himself. “Must be special for the occasion,” he coughed. “Pardon me.” He made a production out of his suddenly dry throat, until Pip set down his tray and pressed a drink into his hands. “Ta,” he muttered into his cup, bitterly. He’d have to remember to make an adjustment later if he got a chance. Albus stuffed a sandwich in his face before he could make any further error.

     Mercifully, Pip changed the subject several times over their lunch. Unfortunately, he eventually turned it back to praising Albus.

     “Your jumpers really are wonderful. I don’t suppose I could hire you for one? I’d pay well for a nice Fair Isle.”

     As he settled his teacup in its saucer, Albus felt a blush rising again. It’d been ages since he’d had a request for something he knitted. “I wouldn’t have any use for the money. But I do like sherbet lemons.”

-

     Hours later, Albus joined Minerva for a nightcap in her office. The spoon clinked as she stirred firewhisky into her cocoa.

     “ _All_ afternoon?”

     “It was a whole to do. You know how ceremony can be.” Albus pushed his spectacles up his nose.

     “I’m just impressed you managed to hold up a conversation that long without running into trouble,” said Minerva. She looked up, in thought. “I’m lucky if I make it ten words past ‘Hello’ with the postman before I bring up owls. That’s _if_ he has anything interesting to say in the first place.”

     “Just because he’s a muggle...”  
  
     “I’m not talking about muggles, I’m talking about men,” Minerva chuckled.

-

     If Albus hurriedly finished every half-made sock in his stash for an excuse to make another trip to Branghandle, there were no witnesses. And if the next time Albus found himself circling the town from above just _happened_ to be a day of the week that Pip usually worked at the charity shop- it was nobody’s business but his own. As he pedalled between puddles down the main road, village life appeared to be back to its usual, relaxed self since the coronation- even if he wasn’t. He missed the kickstand on his bicycle twice before he successfully parked it outside the shop.

     “Pull it together, Albus...”

     Once he was inside, he piled his offering of socks on the counter and looked around, expectantly. There were a handful of villagers milling about, but he couldn’t spot any of the volunteers at first glance. When he cleared his throat, the top of someone’s head bobbed along behind a shelf of books, but as the figure rounded the corner it turned out to be covered by a wimple. His heart sank.

     “Sister Gladys,” he nodded.

     Her head tilted as she connected the dots, then smiled. “The generous Mr. Dumbledore! I’m glad to finally make your acquaintance.”

     “And yours.”  
  
     “Mr. Pip was very proud to have discovered you.”

     Albus took one more glance around the shop. “He’s not around today? Only he asked me if I might make something for him and I forgot to take measurements.”

     Sister Gladys pointed in the direction of Pip’s home. “Oh! We swapped days so he could fix up his garden after last night’s rain. I’m sure he’d welcome a visitor, just the same.”

     “Thank you, Sister.”

     He returned to his bike, giving the bell a hopeful ring as he set off toward the cottage. It was no trouble finding it again, thanks to Pip’s thorough tour. At the familiar sight of ivy on yellow he stopped his bike, charmed the creases out of his suit, and strolled around back of the house through a gap in the hedge. There, among the vines and blooms, was Pip. He knelt between a bucket and a crate full of lettuce, inspecting and speaking soft, encouraging words to his plants.

     “There’s a good lad. Your roots are fine.”

     “Good morning, Mr. Pip.”

     Pip sat back on his heels and looked up in surprise. “Well hello, Mr. Dumbledore!”

     “I hope you don’t mind my dropping by. I thought you might like help with the snails.” Albus was no stranger to the basics of herbology. Snails were always a nuisance after a heavy rain, however magical or mundane the crop.  
  
     “Did Sister Gladys tip you off? I’ve always said that woman was a miracle.”

     “That she did.”

     Pip gratefully took Albus’ elbow to get back on his feet, then clung to his arm for a long moment and looked up at him fondly. “I had so hoped to see you again.”

     Albus was defenseless against his sincere, grassy kneed charm. “I... You too.”

     Pip chucked his gloves into the crate packed with leafy greens. “I’ll put this inside and then we can escort the trespassers to the woods?”

     “Yessir,” Albus agreed. Left alone in the garden with the snails for a few moments, he let them know just how lucky they were. “If I didn’t have a muggle to keep accountable to, you’d be vanished by now.”

     Almost as quick as he might have done with the aid of a wand, Pip returned. “Did you have a stern word with them?”  
  
     “I did, in fact.”

     Pip grinned up at him. “Good, they might take you seriously. You’re more intimidating.”

     Albus laughed- he had heard that before. “Is it my ‘teacher voice’?”

     “It’s your eyes,” Pip said. “Bright as lightning. Nearly stopped my heart first time I saw you.”

     “Oh.” His stomach fluttered.

     Bucket swinging in hand, they took off down the lane toward the woods, where garden pests could roam free.

     “To be honest I didn’t know if I’d see you again, or if I scared you off,” Pip admitted, along the way. “I’m told I can be too direct.”

     Albus shook his head. This was a characteristic he could appreciate. There was far too much deceit and subterfuge in his history; someone who simply said what they thought and felt was a breath of fresh air. “I’m not easily frightened. Besides,” he coughed. “There was some talk of sherbet lemons...”

     Pip elbowed him lightly. “Oh, you’re a funny one.”

     A breeze rustled the leaves in the trees that covered their way, dappling the road with golden light as they navigated between puddles. For a moment it reminded Albus of Godric’s Hollow and the long path through the woods he walked with another man, long ago. His treacherous memory started to fill in more details but he shook his head, rejecting the comparison.

     A moment later Pip stepped off the village road and into the foliage. “This looks like the spot.”

     “Better than they deserve,” said Albus. He tipped what snails he could out of the bucket, and then they plucked the rest out by hand, sticking them to a nearby tree. “-and stay out!” he warned when they were done. Pip rattled the bucket menacingly for good measure.

     “Now,” Pip huffed, turning to Albus. “Would you care to join me for tea? The mint is at its best just after the rain.”

     “I would like that.”

-

     Albus marked written O.W.L.s while Minerva leaned in his office door. “He’s asked me to bingo next Saturday, whatever bingo is,” he said without looking up. It would be too painful if she were pitying him for being a misunderstanding old fool.

     “It’s a sort of board game mixed with a raffle,” she explained.

     “You’ve played?”

     “Halfblood, remember?”

     He hunched lower over his scrolls. “I might not go. I’ll still be knackered from the Leaving Feast.” It was very nearly end of term, and he had a tendency to get a bit maudlin the night before the students left. It was not as if Albus had a family to spend summer holiday with, so he stayed on at Hogwarts. The prospect of an empty castle made him lonely, and when he was lonely...

     Minerva harrumphed. “Then don’t over do it. And if you’re asking my opinion-”

     “If it’s not too humiliating.” He didn’t need a lecture on how insular he’d become in the last few years. There were precious few outside the castle he kept in regular contact with, and even those inside its walls considered him an enigma. It was his own fault. He was the one who made all the shameful mistakes that were better kept to himself. How many of his so-called ‘friends’ had suffered for trusting him?

     “-He sounds nice,” Minerva said lightly.

-

     The evening of the Leaving Feast, Albus resolved to take Minerva’s advice. He took a seat next to Headmaster Dippet to keep himself on his best behavior, declined Horace’s invitation to Hogsmeade, and whiled away the rest of the night with his knitting. After all- he was an experienced cabler, but his color patterning could use a brush-up before he took on a Fair Isle design.

     As it turned out, it didn’t matter how sharp Albus was at bingo the next day. He couldn’t remember whether or not he had won, because Pip had squeezed his hand for luck every time either of them had a partial row. Seeing as they played several cards during any given round, this was more often than not. It made everything during and directly after the game a bit of blur, like he was under the influence of a Tempus Fugit enchantment. He didn’t mind at all when Pip made sure to introduce about a dozen of their fellow players to his good friend, Mr. Dumbledore. What wizard could worry about keeping a low profile while he was so elated? As they climbed the stairs out of St. David’s basement where bingo was held, he even went so far as to put an arm around Pip’s back.

     Albus dithered when they reached the fence where he had leaned his bicycle. It was less than an hour to sundown, and the sky behind Bascomb’s smokestacks was lilac, like a brew of Amortentia. He didn’t want to say goodnight just yet, but it wasn’t like he could ask Pip back to Hogwarts for a nightcap. (And even if there weren’t a Statute of Secrecy, he was too tall to share his broomstick.) For the first time since he had sold the family home half a century ago, he wished he was his own landlord. Things could be so simple. If not for the daily commitment required by Hogwarts, he might have his own cozy cottage close by with a brightly painted door and a happy little garden full of snails.

     “Everything all right, Mr. Dumbledore?” Pip asked. He always asked. He always told too, even if Albus didn’t reciprocate.

     He really should try and make an effort.

     “I was just thinking that it would be very nice to live in Branghandle.”

_With you._

     Pip straightened up proudly. “ _I_ like it.” He was as rosy cheeked as ever, matching his taffy pink bowtie. “I think you’d make a fine Branghandler, too. If you wanted.”

     “Too far from the school during term, I’m afraid.”

     “It’s the summer now though! Best time of year.”

     Albus laughed, a bit gruff. “Not for me.”

     Pip couldn’t have known that all the worst things that had ever happened to Albus were summer memories, sun soaked and too vivid to forget. He must have let on more of his pain than intended, because Pip frowned for the first time since they’d known each other.

     “How long is your ride home? Do you need to go?”

     Albus patted the lamp on his handlebars. “I can manage in the dark.”

     “Why don’t you come back for a cuppa?” he asked. “Or a real drink. I found some records at the shop yesterday. We can try to get your holiday started off right.”

     “If anyone could,” Albus smiled. They started off down the road, with Albus’ bicycle rolling between them. “What sort of records did you find; a census or a journal? I quite enjoy research.”

     “Gramophone records,” Pip chuckled. “I know you like music.”

     “I do.”

     “No Handel though. It’s more likely to be Rodgers and Hammerstein, if you don’t mind.”

     Albus had never heard of either, of course. “I’m open minded.”

     “How academic of you.” Pip paused a moment in the street, let the bicycle between them get ahead, then crossed behind it to walk next to Albus. Their arms occasionally brushed. “So, professor. What do you most like to research?”

     With a little improvisation, he was confident he could answer that. “I suppose it’s etymology? I’m interested in how words come to having meaning.”

     “D’you have a favorite word?” Pip looked up at him sideways. His eyes glinted, no doubt as he expected an outlandish answer.

     “Hmm. I’m trying to think of one that’s meaning I like, _and_ is fun to say.” Albus scratched his crooked nose, and suddenly it was obvious. “Episkeui! Greek. Means ‘repair’, which is always a commendable sentiment.”

     Pip laughed. “Those Greeks don’t miss a trick. Did they make you read Butler’s translation in school, too?”

     Hogwarts curriculum was decidedly lacking in literary requirements, but the oldest and greatest of Western canon was in their library, of course. It dropped off somewhere after Milton and Voltaire, but he had devoured it all. “I read it on my own. Butler’s _and_ Cowper’s.”

     “La di da,” Pip singsonged.

     “I know. I was an overachieving git.” They both laughed.

     By the time they reached the cottage, the sunset was in full effect. With the jingle of keys that has fast becoming Albus’ favorite music, Pip welcomed him in. It was just as still and cozy inside as it had been on earlier visits, though this time a large buckled case had appeared on top of the television. When he took a seat on the couch, Pip handed him several records to pick from. Without context for any of the names or styles of music, he picked the most colorful of the folders on which a tartan clad couple danced. He supposed it was folk music.

     Pip raised an eyebrow. “Oh, very interesting. 'Brigadoon, Brigadoon, there my heart forever lies',” he quoted.

     Albus sat back while Pip set the record to play, and wondered what he’d got himself into. The orchestration struck up while they shared a drink and recounted their bingo luck. The music he selected turned out to be a sort of opera, though there were clearly scenes missing that filled in the story. Two hunters had happened upon a mysterious town, someone was already getting married, someone else was just about to fall in love.

 _When the mist is in the gloamin',_  
_And all the clouds are holdin' still,_  
_If you're not there I won't go roamin'  
Through the heather on the hill_

     It was decidedly romantic.

     Albus crossed his legs to better face Pip as they sat together on the couch, laying his arm along the top so that his fingertips just brushed Pip’s shoulder. His rumpled corduroy suit made him look as warm and soft and pleasant to touch as Fawkes on his best day. In that moment, Albus was so glad he hadn’t spoiled today by overdoing it the night before. He was glad he hadn’t died eight years earlier, when there didn’t seem to be any remaining use for his life but to wait out the hunger of the Elder Wand and pray he didn’t succumb to it first. In that moment, all was perfect and peaceful. Now, there was nothing left to defeat but his cowardice, nothing to banish but the notion that he should try to live as unremarkable a life as possible until an unremarkable death. He took a sharp breath to pluck up his Gryffindor courage.

     “What’s the story?” he asked Pip. “Between the songs.”

     Pip licked his lip and squinted in thought. “Well, Brigadoon is under a spell. It only appears out of the Highland mists for one day every hundred years. And the hunter has to decide if he’s willing to stay, just to be with his love.”

     “And what’s the story-” Albus asked again, “-between us?” He swallowed hard, and hoped.

     “And people say _I’m_ too direct.”

     “I know it’s...” But he didn’t know what it was. Complicated, certainly- even with the limited context Pip had. “I don’t know what say.”

     “Albus,” Pip put his hand on his knee and smiled gently. “I almost do, but I was still trying to figure out which of us is Brigadoon.”

     A half nervous, half relieved laugh burst out of Albus. “It doesn’t matter.”

     His hand by Pip’s shoulder finally connected and then traced along until it found his neck. It had been so long since he had touched anyone to guide them into a kiss, he no longer had an instinct for how to tilt, or when to close his eyes. He held there, just brushing the spot below Pip’s jaw with his thumb, trying to content himself if he was allowed only this and nothing more. He could, he thought. But then Pip leaned in.

     He felt fingers scratch into his beard first, making him shiver. The feeling was a complete surprise- he had always been clean shaven, before. Then Pip kissed him softly, just a hint of warmth. The delicacy of it made Albus gasp, his lips seeking solidity. When they found it, he pressed back with confidence. Then Pip kept kissing him, layering in sensations. Surety. Desire. _Joy._ Someone wanted him, and it wasn’t for power or prestige. Neither of them had asked for anything but a chance to see if this connection was real. When the needle skipped off the record at the end of music they broke apart, but the magic was still there. They sat there in each other's arms, nose to nose while the turntable spun soundlessly.

     “I don’t know where you came from,” Pip said. “But I'm glad you did.”

-

     The break from school meant more opportunity to visit Branghandle, and more time in Branghandle meant more Bingo, and tea, and watching _Zoo Quest_ on the telly. They took long walks, fed the ducks at the pond, and judged a pie bake at St. Davids. Albus visited in the rain to help chase away snails, and he visited on sunny days to sow carrots and onions and some dirigible plums that had taken over Greenhouse One while Professor Beery was on sabbatical in Brazil. During the day they whispered to the garden and at night, to one another.

     “I’d very much like to see where those plums came from,” Pip wondered one evening. They sat on the couch as a record played and Albus knitted, his feet in Pip’s lap. “Such unusual sprouts. The fruit is sort of upside down, isn’t it?”

     Albus cleared his throat. “They’re Australian.”

     “That explains it.”

     Of course, Albus had double checked every herbology text at his disposal to be sure there was no magical pitfall to their presence in the garden. Dirigibles were merely a plant that had gone extinct under muggles for making too good a stew. He couldn’t wait for them to ripen so he could dazzle Pip with a favorite recipe. There was a delicious winter ahead of them.

     “Give me your arm?” Albus sat upright. It was time to see if the sleeve he was making would fit.

     Pip held out his arm for Albus to slip it on. The length was just right. “Looks good to me.”

     “That’s one down. Now I’ll have to do it again!” He put his knitting away on the side table. He had the beginnings of the torso back at Hogwarts, where he would eventually combine all the pieces.

     “Now can I borrow _your_ arm for a moment?” Pip asked. Automatically, Albus extended it as though it was his turn to model a sleeve. Pip scooted on the couch and snuggled up against him, laying his head on Albus’ shoulder. “Ah, perfect fit.”  
  
     “Just so.”  
  
     If knitting was Albus’ handicraft, then affection was Pip’s. He folded his arm around him and hummed contentedly. They sat like that for awhile, until the sky outside the window turned from orange to indigo. He sighed when he noticed it. He wasn’t keen to the ruin the moment, but they would probably say good night soon, and there was something he ought to bring up before he left.

     “School starts on the first, you know.”

     Pip quietly nodded. It was five days away.

     “As Head of House, I won’t get much time...” he started. “Just Sunday mornings and Tuesday evening through Wednesday supper.” He couldn’t even promise that, if the Wizengamot called on him or Professor Dippet asked him to become deputy headmaster, as he suspected. It would put a cramp his habit of visiting Branghandle three or four days a week. He had considered apparition instead of travelling by broomstick to maximize his time, but that would only go so far.

     “Maybe I could go up with you. See you off?” Pip fiddled with the top button on Albus’ waistcoat, but he didn’t sound hopeful.

     Albus pressed his cheek to the top of his head. “I wish that you could, but I don’t make the rules there.”

     “Hmm. Well, _I_ make the rules here.” Pip laid his hand flat on his chest and looked Albus in the eye. “You can stay Tuesday nights, if you like.”

     “I don’t want to presume-”

     “And stay tonight,” Pip said, decided. He laid his head down again.

     “All right,” Albus agreed.

     He stayed, and when Pip dozed off on his shoulder, he riffled through his pocket for his deluminator, so as not to disturb him by switching off the lights.

-

     It was easy to fall back into step at Hogwarts, though Albus knew he would miss the summer’s pace. There were some promising first years sorted into Gryffindor, and a number of bright new students from the other three houses for his Defense Against Dark Arts classroom, as well. Only fifteen students between sixth and seventh year were taking N.E.W.T. levels, so he was able to combine their class time and give the elder students independent study projects. The breathing room this afforded him was, of course, offset by Dippet’s inevitable request.

     “You deserve the post,” Minerva insisted. Her heels clacked authoritatively as they walked Hogwarts’ stone corridors. Albus was the only beneficiary of the effect, as their first shift as hall monitors was uneventful apart from the Prewett twins forgetting The Fat Lady’s password. “You must know he expects you to be headmaster when he retires.”

     “Professor Dippet is many things, but he is not subtle,” Albus admitted. Ever since the incident with the Chamber, there had been a lot of comments along the lines of _You can have it out over expulsion guidelines with the board of governors when it’s your school to run._ Hardly cryptic.

     They passed the portrait of Sir Cadogan who waved his sword for their attention. “Tally ho, professors! Seems there’s a sleepwalker in the Charms wing.”

     “Finally, _something_ ,” Minerva muttered.

-

     In the disastrous aftermath of quidditch tryouts, Albus wasn’t able to get away to Branghandle until Wednesday morning. If Pip was disappointed they were not able to share dinner the night before, he didn’t show it. He took the apology bottle of pumpkin juice from his hands and welcomed Albus in, delighted to see him. Throughout the autumn, they fell into as much of a routine with their weekly dates as Hogwarts would allow. The occasional detention needed holding, and twice the Wizengamot needed a juror, but on balance they saw each other more often than not.

     Albus missed Pip during the rest of the week, of course. In class he made parallels between television monsters and magic creatures, or set mnemonics to the tune of a song from Pip’s gramophone as a sort of tribute. This bewildered some students, but made him wildly popular with muggleborns who were unused to their professors joking about _Flower Pot Men_ or _Saber of London._

     On breaks between class Albus marked homework and knit for the charity shop, for the adolescent mandrakes, and for Pip. On occasions when he couldn’t get away for a visit, the deluminator was close by on his desk in case Pip should say his name. It never failed to bolster Albus if he was in a lonely mood and Pip’s voice chimed in with “ _Mr. Dumbledore complimented the chuck roast,_ ” or _“Didn’t you snails hear Albus?_ ”

     Hogwarts had its first snow in the middle of December, the same day he finished Pip’s jumper. The timing was perfect, as they would be meeting the next day to exchange Christmas gifts ahead of the holiday. Albus wanted Pip to have something warm to wear on his trip down to London, where his daughter had invited him to her home all the next week. Perhaps if it were a less notable occasion, Albus might have liked to meet Pip’s family, but with all the emphasis muggles tended to put on Christmas it didn’t seem like the right time. He would content himself that Pip was well dressed while they were apart, and then they would have a chance to spend several days together at New Year’s, on their own.

     Luckily for Albus’ bike, the snow blanketing Branghandle upon his arrival wasn’t as deep as at Hogwarts. The street was dotted with the tiny shoe prints of children and the heels of ladies, but nearly empty of the pedestrians who had left them, save for a gaggle of teenagers just returned from sledding in the hills. It had begun to flurry again, and anyone who could go indoors already had. It occurred to Albus that he might be snowed in with Pip overnight and ‘forced’ to send Fawkes to beg off work. _Sorry, detained by weather while visiting with muggle, cannot leave without arousing suspicion- you understand!_ It was a fantasy, really- the forecast wasn’t that severe- but the thought of it kept him warm as he wheeled along, nonetheless. Soon enough Pip’s yellow door came into view, adorned with a bow so that it looked like a present. Albus stopped his bicycle by the woodpile out front and dusted snow off his own gift before knocking the door to the beat of "Joy To The World".

     The door swung open and framed Pip in warm, festive light. He twinkled as great fluffy snowflakes fell all around him. “Albus! Come in out of the snow, there’s a chap.” He slung an arm around his back to hurry him through before the cold could get in and undo the hard work of the crackling fireplace.

     Albus took off his spectacles, fogged by the sudden heat. When he put them back on he took one look and broke out in a laugh. In the middle of the parlor where the couch and table usually stood was a tall, bulky item draped haphazardly by two of Pip’s tablecloths. All the furniture in the room had been pushed aside or stacked to accommodate for its presence. Perched on top was a large glass jar filled with sherbet lemons. “What is this?” he asked.

     Pip grinned. “You’ll see!” He took the things Albus was carrying and set them down to help him out of his hat and coat. As soon as he had them hung up he turned and stretched out his arms to wrap around his middle as Albus gathered him into an embrace.

     “You’re a wonder,” he murmured to the top of Pip’s head. “And wonderfully warm!”

     Pip’s hands slid to catch his hands as they separated. “And you’re freezing!” He folded Albus’ between his own and huffed a warm breath at his cold fingers. “You’ll want to fix that before your surprise.”

     Puzzled but pleased, Albus retrieved his package from on top of the telly. “Then I suppose I should give you this first.” He wasn’t really sure where they ought to sit, as the couch was currently lost under the side table, a chair, and the coffee table. “I’m afraid you can guess what it is.”

     Chuckling but saying nothing, Pip untied the ribbon strung around paper and peeled it open to reveal his new jumper, promised all those months ago. It was a riot of color in the yoke, with pops of yellow and red in an intricate bloom atop its chocolate brown sleeves and body. It had taken inspiration from Pip’s friendly yellow door, his couch, his garden, and dark, loving eyes. While making it, Albus constantly wanted to stop and hold it tight in his arms, for all that it reminded him of its intended wearer.

     “This is marvelous! I should have bought two jars of sherbets...” Pip unfurled the jumper to feel the texture and another item came loose. He caught it before it fell to the floor and looked up with a smile. “And a key! Oh, this is very fine.”

     It was pure silver, long and filigreed with an ornate ‘A’ engraved in its handle. Albus had made it himself as a much younger man, when he had first studied the Philosopher’s Stone with Nicholas Flamel. It was simply an exercise in theory, at the time. Ornamental. He had never been interested in generating a profit by alchemy, but held on to the small treasure he had crafted and hoped a purpose would come, someday. Now it had.

     “I’ve had it a very long time. I don’t know where it goes, but I think it’d be more at home in your collection.” Albus eyed the plaques full of hanging keys.

     “If you think it’s going on the wall, you’re barking.” Pip leaned to kiss him, then slipped the key in his breast pocket. “Thank you.”

     Albus blushed. “You’re very welcome.”

     He watched in curiosity as Pip folded his other gift and put it aside. Albus took the jar of sherbet lemons as it was offered to him and cracked it open for a sniff of their tart, sweet smell.

     Pip clapped his hands. “Now! I hope you’ve warmed up.”

     “Mmm, I have.” He put the jar next to Pip’s folded jumper and stood expectantly.

     “At first I thought of getting you a dictionary, but I worried I’d give you one you already had... Then I remembered something else I knew you’d like.” Pip circled behind the covered object in the middle of the room and gripped into the cloth. “Do you remember when we first met?”

     “Day of the coronation.” Albus squinted. The shape beneath the cloth certainly wasn’t a throne...

     “There was something we mentioned that day... Sister Gladys helped me track it down.” With a sweep of the arm, Pip pulled away the covers to reveal a low, long wooden bench and a matching upright piano.

     Albus’ jaw dropped in surprise. He had wished to hear Pip play the day they met, and had wished it many more times throughout their courtship as they sat together listening to music. “How did you manage?”

     “Well, it’s not forever,” Pip conceded. “There’s still no place for it. But it’s the Kennings’, from a few doors down. They’ll be in Wales through New Years, so they agreed to have me mind it for them. Dennis came and moved it in for me.”

     “That must have been a spectacle,” Albus laughed. It looked like it could hardly fit through the door, considering it’s breadth. He approached as though he was gentling an animal possessed of mysterious and formidable magic. Perhaps it was. Even if it was only available for awhile, it was more than Albus ever knew to hope for. He plinked a key, and savored its sound. “Do you know how to play any carols?” he asked.

     Pip came around front of the piano and pulled out the bench to sit, leaving the right half empty. “Of course I do. And you can play too.”

     “I don’t know-”

     “Come sit!” Pip patted the spot beside him. As soon as he was seated, Pip began to explain. “These four keys in a row? Yes, in that order. That’s the ‘ding dong, ding dong’ part. Over and over.”

     While Albus tended to the lower, underlying metre, Pip began playing the airy, floating melody. They layered together into a familiar, rushing tune that reminded him of flickering candles and watching students skip down a spiral staircase, light as snowflakes. It was like bells and deep, dark winter penetrated only by starlight. As the song resonated through the instrument it wrapped him in memory and fantasy in equal parts. It was a fine spell. When the last note finished sounding, his heart still seemed to beat to its command.

     “Did I get it right?” Albus asked.

     “You’ve missed one thing.” Pip pointed up and Albus’ eye followed his finger to the ceiling where a green sprig tied with ribbon hung from the rafter.

     “I hope you’ve checked that mistletoe for nargles.”

     Pip sighed fondly. “I don’t know where you come up with these things, Mr. Dumbledore.”

     Albus took Pip’s face in both hands, his chest still swelling to the rhythm of the carol. Pip’s rosy cheek nestled into the touch, then turned to press a whiskery kiss to his palm. He was absolutely smitten with this fantastic man. Pip was open hearted in a way that inspired him to be more thoughtful and more forthright, just when he had forgotten what strength there was in tenderness. He bent to kiss Pip in thanks not only for sweets and sweet music, but for making a bitter man better.

     “This is the best present I’ve ever had,” he admitted. When the piano was eventually returned to the Kellings, he knew he would still remember this Christmas forever. Though perhaps, if he worked slowly, he could imperceptibly charm Pip’s cottage inch by inch until the day it could fit a piano year round. He would take what he could get, meanwhile.

     Pip returned to the piano keys and played a tinkling little ornament. “Any requests?” he asked, side-eyeing Albus.

     “Which is the one with all the adoring, in Latin?”  
  
_Venite adoramus, venite adoramus, venite adoramus, do-O-minus!_  
  
     He was very much in the mood to adore, repeatedly.

     “Adestes Fideles?” Pip tapped out the opening notes to confirm. “Now that’s one we’ve got to sing along to, or it’s not been done properly.” He cleared his throat. “I might need a glass of water first, though.”

     “I'll get it.” Albus pecked Pip’s cheek and rose from the bench to fetch it from the kitchen. The burning fireplace had rather parched the room, he noted.

     “Bless you.” Pip, fiddled another trill and mordent as he went.

     The cramped little kitchen was familiar to Albus now, after so many visits. They had long since passed by the formality of host and guest and had prepared countless meals together, elbow to elbow. He knew where the shakers were hidden, and how far to turn the hot tap so he didn’t scald himself- and he knew that there was not usually a large tawny owl scratching at the window. Albus crossed the kitchen in a rush, forgetting to take glasses down from the shelf behind him.

     “What are you doing here?” he whispered while attempting to quietly open the window. It was stuck from the cold. The owl tapped its beak, undeterred, until finally there was a crack it could push its envelope through. Albus shut the window immediately and flipped the letter open.

**URGENT!**

**Aurors have discovered an overlooked hex circle in Albania responsible for the deaths of at least thirty muggles. There has been no success in dispelling the trap or creating wards to prevent further loss of life, and Grindelwald has refused to surrender the counterhex to anyone but you. Your presence is required immediately.**

**Regards,**  
**Iolanthe Cavendish  
** **Deputy Mugwump, International Confederation of Wizards**

     All the blood drained from his face and the warm glow inside him that had been kindled by a perfect evening was extinguished. This sort of thing wasn’t supposed to happen- and if it had to, couldn’t it have happened more promptly after the duel? There had been nearly two years of inquiry and court appearances. He felt furious! He felt sick. He vanished the letter wandlessly and bent over the sink in case he might retch.

     “Albus?”

     This had to be settled, now. Albus drew himself up and went back into the parlor. “I’m sorry, I have to go.” It was like someone else was speaking with his voice, toneless and unnerving. He couldn’t think of a reassuring lie or a vague truth.

     Pip stood up behind the piano. “What’s wrong?” He tried to reach Albus before he crossed the room to grab his coat, but was impeded by the bench.

     “It’s an emergency,” was all Albus could say as he jammed on his hat. After one last look at Pip’s stricken face he went out the door. He turned right there on the step and disapparated before he could think better of it.

-

     The halls of Nurmengard had been splendid, just a decade ago. The fortress had served as headquarters to Grindelwald’s movement; a monument to a monster. Now its vaulted chambers were drafty and the carpet had gone threadbare. The hub of activity was limited now to only the necessary jailers and their single charge. Albus followed Iolanthe Cavendish up stone carved steps, through several layers of the strongest enchantments known to wizarding kind. In their scope it was impossible to maintain latent magics like occlumency or metamorphics for more than a few moments, and wands were not permitted. To anyone more magical than a flobberworm the combined effect was oppressive and depressing.

     They climbed the tower silently until finally Cavendish stopped at a nondescript door. There were no handles or hinges, just cold gray metal. She laid her hand against the surface and it rippled away. “Just say my name when you’re ready,” she said. “He won’t be able to get out.”

     Albus stared at the witch for a long moment before heading through the door. In the back of his mind there had long been a fear, however irrational, that he’d be locked away like this. It probably had started with his father’s incarceration in Azkaban, and was exacerbated by his every dubious act since boyhood. No matter how many commendations he received from the Ministry, Albus could never quite banish the notion that he was too dangerous to be allowed to exist, and if they ever caught on they wouldn’t do him the courtesy of a trial or arrest. They’d simply ask him into a room one day and never let him out. He stepped through the door and swallowed the lump in his throat when it reformed behind him.

     Sitting on the floor with his arms wrapped around his knees was Grindelwald. His eyes were closed as his head leaned back against the wall. His socked feet were stained black at the sole, and his drab gray clothes had lost their color in repeated washing. One sleeve was bluer than the rest, revealing that it was made of mismatched material.

     It surprised Albus that his instinct was to feel sympathy. He summoned the fury he had felt upon receiving the letter, instead. “The condition of your sentence was full cooperation,” he said gravely.

     Grindelwald barely opened his eyes. “Fröhliche Weihnachten, Albus. I wasn’t expecting a present.”

     “You forced this,” Albus bit. It was a wonder the Confederation hadn’t already taken matters into their own hands.

     “Because I’d prefer to cooperate with you, pet.”

     The use of an endearment turned Albus’ stomach. “Get to the point Gellert.”  
  
     “What’s the matter? Is there somewhere else you’d rather be?” He waved one of his blanched hands, at their squalid setting. The room was bare except for a lumpy cot. Grindelwald leaned forward and finally fixed on Albus properly. He didn’t bother to guard his mind, though he knew it was coming. He felt Grindelwald spy on his memory under the mistletoe and recoil in distaste. “Oh, I should have known your love for _their kind_ would come to this. Have you told him what you are yet?”  
  
     “You know I can’t.”  
  
     “I never knew you to be afraid of flaunting an unjust law,” Grindelwald sneered. “Wizarding or muggle.”  
  
     “Cavendish!”

     Albus crossed his arms. The implication that his feelings for Pip were a trifle compared to those he had once held was going too far. He had already put one man he loved in prison because he was terrible. He would not risk putting a second in prison because he was wonderful, and he wouldn’t play Grindelwald’s games. The door began to ripple away as he turned to it.

     “Wait!” Grindelwald shouted. “The trap is in Albania, yes?”  
  
     “Yes.” He didn’t turn to face him.

     “I hate to disappoint you, Albus-”  
  
     He scoffed. “That has never been true.”

     “All the same,” Grindelwald sighed. “It’s not one of mine.”

     An extreme thought crossed Albus’ mind as he turned to look at Grindelwald again. There was very little of the young man he once knew there. Just the nose, maybe, and his too-light eyelashes. “They’ll execute you to break the hex, Gellert.”

     He closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall. “Then they’ll be disappointed, too.”

     As Cavendish let him out Albus hated it to admit it, but he believed him. Grindelwald knew he could and would study the hex and perform a Priori Incantatem on the Elder Wand. It was just a matter of due diligence. He knew that Albus was the only one who could clear his name. And _why_? So he could go on living in a cold, hard, box to eternally haunt him from a distance? Albus sighed. It didn’t matter. He would do what was right, even if it hurt. He was just frustrated that it always did.

     He left Nurmengard and headed to the site of the curse. A thorough examination of the spellwork that built the trap revealed that the caster was more likely a native English speaker than a German one. There was an idiosyncratic use of a binding spell that was favored only by the former, and Grindelwald had more suitable Nordic ones at his disposal. It took Albus and Cavendish the better part of three days to dismantle the hex and sift through the history of the Elder Wand, but he returned to Hogwarts with her assurance that Grindelwald would not be punished for this particular crime. There was someone else deadly at large, but it was not on his head to discover them, yet.

     Back at Hogwarts Albus thought of sending an apology to Pip, but it was unlikely to reach him before he left for London, anyway. He drowned his sorrows at the Three Broomsticks with his deluminator set out on the bar in front of him, just in case.

     “Oy professor,” called Rosmerta. She waved her wand at a taxidermy mooncalf until it began to spout mulled mead into his glass. “It’s ‘mooed mead’, get it?”

     Unwilling to be cheered up, Albus swilled his drink and left. He trudged down the high street with his coat unbuttoned, careless for his health. There were bright lights in all the shop windows, but he couldn’t cope with the festive atmosphere at the tea shop or expect a welcome at Hog’s Head Inn, so he returned to the castle to sulk in his rooms until he was required to turn up for class.

     Come the Christmas Feast, there still hadn’t been a peep from the deluminator. Albus could hardly blame Pip for not mentioning him in passing to his family after the way he had ruined the evening he had prepared. He had proven himself to be more reliable to a mass murderer than to his own lover. As he couldn’t forgive himself, he was struggling to invent a fiction to try and make amends with when they did see each other again. Albus merely picked at his food as each course of the feast appeared and disappeared from the table. He felt undeserving of his favorite pudding.

-

     The Tuesday after Christmas Pip was expected back in Branghandle. In lieu of four calling birds, Albus arrived with a box of savory scones from Puddifoot’s. He feared he would be turned away at the door well before they could sit for tea, but he had to make an appearance. There were too many goodbyes he’d been deprived in the past to avoid this one. Albus took a deep breath and knocked.

     “Pip,” he said to the closed door. “I need to apologize.”

     After what felt like ages, it opened. Pip stood back, his customary exuberance subdued. He wasn’t wearing the jumper Albus had made (which he decided ahead of time would be a good sign), but he waved him inside just the same. With the door shut behind Albus, he finally spoke.

     “I didn’t know if you’d be coming back.”

     “I’m very sorry.” Albus offered the box of scones, then took off his hat. “I didn’t make it back to Branghandle as soon as I’d hoped.” He looked around at the parlor, hoping for some clue that Pip was in a forgiving mood, since his face was unreadable. The piano was still there, atleast, but- “Where are your keys?”

     All the hooks were empty.

     Pip sat down on the bench and picked up a nearby box. “Well... I started packing up. Claire and Michael asked me to come live with them.”

     “In London?” Albus was stunned.

     “I’m getting on in years, and they don’t like it that I’m all alone up here,” Pip said, still staring into the box of keys. Each was tied with string to a numbered tag.

     “You’re leaving.” Albus’ heart sank. London or Branghandle didn’t make any difference to him as a wizard, but he couldn’t explain that to Pip. Even if he could excuse frequent trips to London, they couldn’t very well carry on like they had under his daughter’s roof.

     “I was thinking maybe I ought to take her up on it. Maybe I am all alone here.” Pip put down the box and looked up at Albus with undisguised pain. “You visit, but I never really know when or how long I can expect you. I don’t even know how to get in touch with you out of Branghandle. It’s all on your say-so. You could have a family, or a condition, I don’t know! I don’t really know anything about you but that you disappear up to your school.” Pip threw up his hands in defeat. “You’re the Brigadoon one.”

     Having what had been such a happy memory thrown back at him as a grievance made Albus’ nose prickle like he might cry. He didn’t know what to say, except what he had already rehearsed before coming. “The other night, there was an emergency.”

     “Was there?” Pip stood up and pointed out the front window. “After you left, I went outside for firewood. I saw you left your bike. Must have been hard to tend your emergency on foot.”

     Albus glanced over his shoulder, and just as Pip said, his bicycle was still leaned against the fence. In his haste the other night he had disapparated without considering how he had arrived in the first place.

 _Maybe you wanted to be caught,_ said a tiny voice in the back of his head.

     He took Pip’s hand. “I... I don’t want to lie to you. I have never lied to you.”

     Pip smiled sadly. “That's not the same as being honest, is it?”

     “No,” Albus admitted. He gathered Pip’s hand close to his heart, ready for it to be the last contact they ever had, but he was surprised.

     Pip touched Albus’ face and searched his eyes. “What happened? I was afraid you’d been arrested!”

     It finally dawned on him that Pip wasn’t angry with him, he was _worried_ about him. Albus had never given him enough information not to expect the worst when something out of the ordinary happened. And honestly, he was tired of holding it all back. This was good, and good things didn't last forever, especially if you didn't let them have a little sunlight. The same way he knew wizard and muggle kind shared languages and music, he had to trust that there was a common root to the truth, too. Most of all, he had to trust that his kind hearted Pip, who could so easily turn a small misunderstanding into a delightful occasion, would meet him halfway.

     “I received a message,” Albus began. “I know you once suspected that I was member of a... discrete group. I am.”

     Pip shook his head as he stared up at Albus. “You know I wouldn’t give a fig if you were a communist.”

     He couldn’t help but laugh. “No, it’s something you’ve never heard of. I can’t name it-”

     “I don’t care who you work for,” Pip’s head shook again. “I want to know if you’re all right. I want to know if you’re still in trouble.”

     The gentleness in his voice tipped Albus from a state of nose-prickliness to actual tears.

     “I’m going to be all right... I was upset. I don’t have family, or a condition, for that matter- but the message reminded me of why.”

     Pip pulled away a hanky out of his pocket to offer him. “You’re not being threatened?”

     “There are things I’ll be keeping an eye on, but-”

     “Do _I_ put you in danger?”

     Albus stopped dabbing his face immediately and put his arms around Pip. He couldn’t let him suffer such a thought uncomforted. He must have been miserable without anyone to share his worries with, all Christmas.

     “No. Not at all,” he reassured him. “We’re both safe.”

     The tension in Pip’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “You’re sure?”

     “Let me start at the beginning,” said Albus. He sat on the piano bench and drew Pip down with him. It was a lot to take in, no matter how well he scrubbed the magic off of it. Pip kept hold of his hand and did his best to stop furrowing his brow. “When I was a young man, my parents died. I had to care for my brother and sister instead of start my life, and I resented it. I wanted to run away with the man I loved, but my brother discovered our plan and stopped us.”

     Pip’s eyes widened. “He objected?”

     "My brother could see what kind of man he was, even if I couldn’t,” Albus explained. The worst was still to come and he squeezed Pip’s hand tight, but he wasn’t sure which of them was more likely to run away. “There was a fight, and my sister was killed. My brother never spoke to me again, and the man became a fascist.” Albus paused and hung his head. He expected a Ministry howler or some voice from on high to contradict him, but none came. “Just a few years ago, I had him arrested. And the other night I was told I had to confront him for evidence, to prevent more harm. So I did.” He stifled a sob. “All those murders! And sometimes... I worry that I might have committed them if I was with him, still.”

     “Oh, Albus,” breathed Pip. It wasn’t horror in his voice, but sorrow. He turned Albus’s face to look him in the eye. “You can’t punish yourself for that.”

     Whatever Pip said while looking at him like that had a way of seeming indisputable, so he didn’t contradict him. Albus felt raw and hollowed out. He didn’t know what more to say, so he slumped with his face in his hands while he caught his breath.

     Pip rubbed his back in slow circles. “It must have been difficult, but you helped,” he said. "And after all that, you’re here and I’m glad for it.”

     He gave Albus the opportunity to compose himself while he made tea for the scones, and soon returned with a tray full of leftover puddings and chocolates. Albus sipped his tea, thinking that a N.E.W.T. level potioneer could learn a thing or two about calming draughts from Pip.

     “Better?”

     “Much.”

     Over tea, they made plans for a few festive outings during their holiday, including going into town for a film and another game of Bingo.

     “I could invite along a friend of mine from the school,” Albus thought aloud. “She likes bingo.” It would be good to blur the line between his two sides of his life a bit more, to invite Pip into it fully. Minerva would enjoy herself and for all her jokes, still knew how to be sensible around muggles.

     “So there really is a school?”  
  
     “There is,” he confirmed. “Full of wonderful children that I take great pride in.”

     “I’d love to meet your friend.” Pip beamed. “I’d shake your brother’s hand too, given the chance.”

     This surprised Albus. Pip had seemed to take Aberforth’s reaction the wrong way. “Oh really?”

     Pip shrugged. “Sounds to me like he saved you from yourself, and all he got in thanks was to end up lonesome for his family.”

     It had never been put to Albus like that before. He had only ever considered his brother as an adversary, not ally. Pip was right as always, though. Likely Aberforth had spent his Christmas alone too, when Albus could have walked into the Hog’s Head and put a stop to their estrangement. “I’ll make an effort with him,” he promised.

     After tea they picked up where they left off. Pip put on his new jumper and began to play carols, giggling at his own joke as Albus put the keys back on their hooks to the tune of "Deck The Halls _",_ now that London was off the table. They stewed the plums and jarred some for Sister Gladys and the nuns, and walked to the duck pond to watch as Dennis and the other local kids tested the ice. Back at the cottage, Albus roasted their supper on the fire and then had far too many sherbets for dessert, and Pip teased that they were supposed to last him to New Year's, atleast. Later that night when they were tucked in with their evening reading, Pip curled up next him to watch out the window. “I only wish it were snowing,” he yawned. “That’d make things perfect.”

     Albus waved a finger for a weather charm, concealed by his book.

     “Oh, look!”

 


	2. art!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaand I made art, Merry Christmas!

art by me, @stitchyarts on tumblr/twitter


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